


stockholm syndrome

by rottenstrawberrymilk



Series: short stories [1]
Category: Marble Hornets
Genre: Abduction, Animalistic, Captivity, Dubious Consent, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Imprisonment, Kidnapping, Mental Instability, Mention of Slender man, NSFW, Obsession, Paranoia, Physical Abuse, Possessive Behavior, Rough Sex, Roughness, Seizures, Short Story, Slender Sickness, Smut, Stockholm Syndrome, Trauma Bonding, Yandere, little to no dialogue, mainly masky, unknown motives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-12
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:54:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23114263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rottenstrawberrymilk/pseuds/rottenstrawberrymilk
Summary: masky x reader short story
Relationships: Masky/Reader, Timothy "Tim" W. | Masky/You, Timothy "Tim" W./You, Timothy "Tim" Wright/Reader
Series: short stories [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2125431
Comments: 9
Kudos: 203





	1. vanish

He'd gone without leaving a trace. No note, no text, no indication, no rhyme or reason. You'd thought that perhaps you'd done something wrong. Maybe you said something or did something that pissed him off enough to drive him away. 

But Tim wasn't like that and you knew it. Tim wouldn't do that to you.

Sure he wasn't outwardly vocal or confrontational--but even if you had done something wrong he would have indicated it. He would have mentioned it to you as you laid between the sheets with him, his hand on your arm, rubbing slow circles into your skin like usual. And you would have talked it out with him, whatever the issue was. At least that's how it was supposed to go. That's what was _supposed_ to have happened.

He didn't seem mad at you before he left that morning. If anything he was actually pretty happy looking. You couldn't blame him after the night you'd given him. He'd pulled you close from behind and had kissed the side of your neck, his arms tight around you. You remembered leaning back into him, letting his lips touch your skin. 

And then he was out the door and that was the last you'd seen of him. 

Before you knew it, a week had passed and there was still no sign of Tim Wright. 

Obviously you hadn't sat idle, waiting for him to show back up. You'd gone to the local police at the end of the first day, when he never came home. They'd looked into it and had sent out a small search team for him. You didn't think it was big enough to cover the whole town and the heavily wooded area surrounding it, but it was better than nothing. After the end of the second day of searching had come to a close, they'd very gently implied to you that you'd probably not see him again. They still promised to continue looking, but it didn't offer you much comfort.

You knew that he couldn't have left of his own will. That wasn't like him. Something happened to him--something really bad. You could feel it in your gut. The lack of well..anything being uncovered after 48 hours made you fear the worse. You knew that it was a very real possibility that Tim was out there...dead. But as soon as you had those thoughts you buried them deep. You wanted to believe he was alive. You _wanted him_ to be alive. 

After two more weeks the case went cold and the police stopped sending out search parties for Tim. It'd left you feeling numb and heartbroken all at the same time. Like your insides were twisting and aching--aching to see him again, hear from him again, anything at all. You missed him. So. Fucking. Much.

Those were the only words that ran through your mind as you cried yourself to sleep every night, unable to take your mind off of him. You often reached out to the other side of the bed, which you never slept on. You left it open. Just in case...just in case by some miracle he'd come home. You had no closure and you wanted no closure. Because a part of you felt that if you ever let yourself have closure--if you ever let yourself let go and move on--you'd be wronging Tim. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair to him. 

But there was only so long you could continue dragging yourself down. You thought that, maybe, you could, little by little, start to heal from this. Or at least work towards some level of being "okay" again. Of not feeling a hole inside of you and the constant aching of your chest. 

You thought maybe going outside would help you, just a little, even if it was grey and gloomy and cloudy out. 

You hated to admit it, but finally breathing something other than that same apartment air felt good. It felt good not to look everywhere and see those walls. It felt good not to see all the things that Tim had left behind. And all the sudden, you felt it. Just a hint for the first time. Just a flash of it.

Just feeling "okay". That calm, neutral serenity that flowed over you for just the briefest of moments before your own mind chased it off again. It gave you a strange sort of hope. Just knowing that you were capable of feeling that way again made you think you could do it again and again. You'd just have to keep trying.

But still as you walked, you couldn't stop thinking back about Tim. About the exact morning he left. About the touch of his hands on your body and his lips on your skin and his warm breath stirring the fine hair by your ears. About everything you'd done prior to that day. You knew a part of you was still frantically combing for anything that you could blame for his disappearance. You almost wished it was something that had been your fault--something that you had said. So at least you could hate someone or something for making Tim just...vanish. 

Tears had gathered in your eyes and you'd come to a sudden stop, your hands in your pockets. It took you a minute to compose yourself. You'd looked back up and suddenly realized just how dark it was. Your brows furrowed slightly as you glanced around, feeling very much disoriented.

You thought you'd only been walking for a few minutes. Right? It was like three when you left and it wasn't supposed to get dark for a long time. Not just lowering sun dark. Pitch, night dark.

A chilled breeze you hadn't noticed before ghosted over your skin and you suddenly wished you'd brought a jacket with you. You wrapped your arms around yourself, already thinking of heading back home. But when you turned, you found with a start that you didn't recognize a single one of the surroundings all around you. Had you been that deep in thought? You'd thought you were being pretty conscious of where you were going--you'd walked these woods before with Tim, in fact you'd even unconsciously taken a path that he used to walk with you on often...

Glancing around, you found yourself only becoming more confused and a little frightened.

"Uh...." was the only thing that managed to escape your lips as your eyes darted, frantically, around at the trees and the rocks and the moss and logs all around. Everything looked the exact damn same. 

There was only one thing to really do and you decided that it was to tread on. You didn't want to spend the night in the forest. You'd had a funny feeling about it walking in. Eventually, you just ended up picking a direction that made you feel the least perplexed and figured that if you kept going straight, you'd end up _somewhere_. Somewhere that wasn't here.

As you treaded on, you found yourself developing a bit of a headache. Even if you couldn't see or focus on much, your eyes were beginning to burn and feel fuzzy. Probably lack of sleep and exhaustion...but you hadn't walked that far. You didn't feel sore or anything. You didn't feel out of breath. And it seemed more severe and noticeable than usual. 

Maybe it was just because you had nothing else to focus on but yourself because everything around you was plunged in darkness. You were reminded of this after you almost tripped on rocks three or four times. 

Eventually, you thought you saw something, silhouetted against the night sky--some large tower or building. You'd never seen it before in your life, but you figured it was a better landmark than nothing at all in case you started going in circle on accident or something. Once you got closer to it maybe you could even find some cover to sleep under for the night--somewhere to keep the wind and cold off your skin until morning when you could see properly and find your way back. 

_Huh...that's an interesting red color..._

All the sudden, your headache grew worse, to the point of excruciating pain. For a moment, you went completely blind--like a way scarier sort of head rush. You'd stumbled away from the tower, your hands on your knees for a moment, just trying to find your balance and the strength to stay on your feet. There was this loud, high pitched noise piercing in your ears, unnatural and completely unknown to you. One of your hands shot to your head, pushing against it, as a soft whimper of pain escaped you. 

With no warning, something solid and fast moving hit you, hard, body slamming you into what felt like a nearby tree. The wind was knocked out of you and you fell into a state of shock, too overwhelmed to really do anything else other than let out a cry of pain as the tree bark dug into your arm. Whatever had attacked you suddenly was pulling you away from the tree, grabbing you tightly by your shirt. Your legs couldn't have picked a worse time to collapse as you let out another shout. You couldn't even hear yourself over the pounding of your blood in your ears. 

It was dragging you, whatever had you, it was dragging you. It'd grabbed you by some of your hair too. You'd reached back, attempting to untangle yourself and escape from whatever had you. It had to be some animal or something. And then you grabbed at human hands. You felt fingers. Gloves. Some _one_ was dragging you across the ground. Your adrenaline finally kicked in and you managed to regain some of your breath. 

You didn't know how, but between thrashing and clawing and struggling as hard as you could, you managed to get your assailant down on the ground with you. You wanted to get away from them--him, you suddenly decided, judging by the muffled masculine grunts you heard. Shakily, you attempted to get back to your feet and give running as fast as you fucking could a shot. You barely managed to get up and off all fours before he grabbed you, tight, by the ankle and yanked you back down. You'd sucked in your breath as he dragged you back towards him. It was too dark to aim a proper kick, but you still frantically tried as he climbed on top of you. He obviously weighed more than you, enough to pin you down. Once he was on top, you knew the chances of you getting out of this had plummeted. 

It didn't take him long--just a sharp blow to your head and you fell limp beneath him. 

A soft, muffled exhale escaped him as he took a moment, his head tilted back to face the blackness above. He knew he didn't have much time. Quickly, he got up and off you. With minimal effort, he crouched back down, wrapping his arms around you to pull you up from the earth. He slung you over his shoulder easily, casting a glance behind him briefly--at the red tower. 

He turned back towards the endless forest and began to walk, his gloved hand tight upon your strangely familiar skin.


	2. zip tie

You didn't know how long you'd been out. You didn't know where you were or what was happening. All you could feel the moment your eyes half-opened was stiff plastic around your wrists. All you could do was lay there, motionless, for a few minutes, still somewhat stunned, a dull ache in your temple. You winced and went to bring a hand up to your head. As you raised your right hand, your left shot up with it. You strained against the plastic, sitting up shakily with a soft groan. 

When your eyes got used to the dimness you were able to take a closer look at whatever had your wrists so tightly restrained together.

Zip tie. 

It was already starting to rub uncomfortably against your skin and dig in--it was too tight. For some reason you thought if you struggled a bit harder, you could somehow break loose. Obviously, that wasn't going to happen. 

Your breath had slowed slightly when you'd finally given up. Still, you glanced around rapidly. 

The place around you seemed to be in a terrible state of disuse. The somewhat shabby mattress with no sheets or pillow you were atop of offered you a pretty good view of the carpeted floor around you. Wrappers and empty water bottles on the floor, a dark stain here and there you didn't care to identify, and a rather funky, musty smell overall. 

And then you noticed him.

He gave you a bit of a fright and you jumped slightly, your wrists held close to your chest. For a minute you were embarrassed for not seeing him--even though he'd been sitting at the end of the mattress the entire time you'd glanced about the room. It was so dark, you couldn't really blame yourself, but you couldn't help but note the way his white face stood out.

Wait, no, not a face. A _mask_. A white mask with a small curved nose and little dark lips and thickly lined eyeholes and high, arched, thin brows. You could only feel a sense of unease after observing it. Your bound hands lowered slightly as you tilted your head and squinted your eyes, trying to get a better look at him without getting too close. 

It was obvious that he was the man that had attacked you back in the forest. At least, that's what you wanted to assume. You glanced at his hands. Gloved and dark. A pretty good indicator. He was wearing a jacket, high collared and a lighter shade of color. You could see some tufts of dark hair along the top of the mask.

You absolutely couldn't read his body language for the life of you. He didn't seem to be tense, ready to attack again, but he wasn't entirely relaxed either. Somewhere in the inbetween. Your brows furrowed slightly as you looked for any indication of what he might do next. Of what he was going to do to you next. You couldn't forget about the pounding in your temple. 

You didn't want to, but you opened your mouth. "Hey," you'd said a bit shakily. 

No response. No nod. No indication that he'd even heard you. You cleared your throat and tried again.

"Why am I here? Why'd you bring me here?" You scooted a bit closer, awkwardly because of your tightly bound hands. As you found the courage to speak, even in the silence, you couldn't stop the questions. And he didn't answer a single one of them.

After a few minutes of trying to illicit anything and failing, you sat back with a frustrated sigh.

"Who the fuck _are you_?" 

Once again.

No response. 

He only seemed to stare at you, completely unmoving, unblinking, unfeeling. 

This went on for several days. You hadn't attempted to move from the mattress and you'd lost track of the masked man's comings and goings. You thought the house felt familiar. You spent hours staring at dark walls and floors, trying as hard as you could to remember. 

Nothing came to mind. You just couldn't recognize it. It was too dark, you thought. And you thought you might have been losing your mind a little too. Between the growing hunger and boredom and loneliness, you were surprised your thoughts were still slightly coherent. 

On the other hand, your feelings were clear to you and solid and all you grasp on for the moment. You'd been afraid of him for the first two days and nights you'd spent there. The cold fear used to pump adrenaline in your system that had no place to go and no way to be exerted. The few times he'd walked past you, you'd flinched, hard, and tried to move as quietly and subtly as you could to the opposite side of the mattress. 

But you couldn't keep it up forever. You still didn't know why he was keeping you here, why he tied you up so you couldn't move, why he brought you here. You'd asked him multiple times but, as usual, no response. 

By the third day, you were exhausted and starving. Your tongue felt too heavy in your mouth to move and ask anymore questions. No longer were you attempting to move to the other side of the mattress. You felt too fuzzy and floaty to even flinch when he walked by. He might have even touched your shoulder at one point, but you couldn't really remember, considering you'd been fading in and out of consciousness. You wondered if that was his plan. To torture you and starve you slowly to death for...his own amusement perhaps? But he didn't seem entertained. He didn't seem pleased when he looked down upon you through the holes of the moon pale mask. 

There were suddenly those same gloved hands on your arm, squeezing you. You opened your eyes slowly, not even bothering to lift your head. You didn't move or even make a sound as he nudged you harder. His hands worked under you as he flipped you back off your side and upright, your back against the dingy wall the mattress had been shoved against. 

The sound of a wrapper crinkling seemed to bring you back into focus. You blinked a few times, turning your gaze on him. He had what you could assume was some sort of protein bar or nutrition bar in his hand. He'd unwrapped it and was offering it to you, a bit gingerly. The hunger that had faded to a painful dull ache roared back to life. Without even thinking, you reached out with your bound hands. He put it in your outstretched hands and you snatched it back--you thought he'd try to take it from you for some reason. 

It was awkward eating with the way your hands were bound, but it didn't stop you. You'd wolfed it down in seconds and then had simply sat there, your hands lowered into your lap. You'd watched the masked man at the end of the mattress, silently, your chin tilted up slightly and your head back against the wall. 

You seemed to be able to think straighter and you felt infinitely better--thanks to him. Your hands tightened into fists. A slow idea came to your mind, along with the confidence and bit of strength needed to pull it off. 

Knowing that the masked man couldn't have been mentally right made you a bit nervous. No sane person would do this. No right person would do this. Which would make him even more unpredictable. You still couldn't read him, even when you weren't half focusing on hunger. He was almost like a statue. 

Still, you couldn't stand sitting on that mattress without doing anything anymore. Even if this didn't work, at least you'd get to stretch your legs a little. They'd been going numb lately and it was pretty uncomfortable. So, slowly, you scooted to the other side of the mattress. His head turned slowly as he watched your every move. 

With a bit of effort, you finally managed to stand up, your legs only nearly giving out. You pushed a shoulder against the wall to steady yourself, biting your lip and clenching your hands into fists so tight you could feel your nails in your palm. You could feel his eyes still burning into you as you focused on taking a few steps towards the door. You went slow, not wanting to pull anything rash enough to get you attacked or possibly killed by the masked man. 

You froze when he made a noise, the first thing to pierce the unbearable, tense silence in a long time. It was just a disapproving, almost warning grunt, but no words. You ultimately chose to ignore it. The door stood before you, looking very unappealing overall, but better than that damned mattress for any longer. Your heart pounded in your chest and you took a minute to acknowledge your nervousness. Still, you pushed yourself. You had to try. You _had_ to try.

Slowly, you raised your bound hands towards the door knob, your fists unclenching, your fingers reaching for the metal. You'd heard shifting coming from the mattress--the sound of him rising off of it. A yelp of surprise escaped you as he very suddenly and brutishly grabbed you by your waist, yanking you away from the door. The masked man practically threw you back down onto the bed, once again knocking the breath from your lungs and leaving you a shaking, gasping mess. 

You'd gone to sit up again. It didn't matter. His weight shook the mattress as he dropped down onto it, his hands on either side of your hips. The masked man climbed over top of you until his hands were higher up and his face was directly above yours. You stared up at him, still trying to catch your breath back. He stared back. And for the first time you noticed that he had very, very dark eyes, noticeable past the overlined holes in his mask. 

A bit of a chill swept through you upon realizing you couldn't read them either. 

His gloved hand brushed past your side, making you flinch. He ignored it and grabbed your wrist, his other hand coming over to assist. His legs straddled either side of your body, trapping you still against the mattress. He hooked one of his fingers along the zip tie, giving it a bit of a nasty pull. 

A small whimper of pain escaped you. They still felt tight after all these days. You were reminded then of the lost feeling in your hands that had set in days prior. 

The masked man was checking to make sure they were still holding tight. Still binding you tightly. 


	3. something

It was harder and harder to keep track of passing time in that room. There were no clocks or calendars or anything of that sort. It was like you were stuck in some sort of purgatory. Wake up, sit on the mattress, watch the masked man, go back to sleep. You'd tried to keep a steady sleeping schedule just for the sake of simulating a sort of night time, but with the amount of times you were beginning to nap or drift off due to exhaustion or general boredom, it was getting more and more blurred. You wanted to say maybe a week had gone by. It felt like more, but it made you feel better to underestimate. 

You'd noticed a bit of a change in the masked man's behavior. Maybe you were reading too much into it because of the redundancy and bleakness of well...everything, but it just felt odd to you. He didn't seem to leave the house at all. Sure, he might have left the room, but you could hear him walking around--he walked pretty heavy. He almost patrolled the house. He constantly, almost obsessively was checking the windows and the doors, ensuring that they were locked or continued to hold steady after presumably being painted shut. 

It was like he was taking extra measures constantly to keep you in.

...

Or keep something out. 

The thought of that made you nervous all over again. You'd rationalized at first, thinking it was ridiculous. Obviously it was more plausible that he was trying to keep you in--trying to keep you from escaping. You'd go to the police and report him and they'd find him and lock his ass up. He didn't seem like the type to get caught.

But then again, with no rhyme or reason he was continuing to keep you alive. If he didn't want you to escape and squeal to the cops then he could have just slit your throat (you'd seen the pocket knife he carried around, he often balanced it on his finger tip when he stared out the window, sitting on the mattress). But there was something stopping him. Some motive you didn't know of. 

And all the sudden you couldn't stop circling back to the idea that there was something worse out there in the woods possibly looking for you. Or him. Once again, you had no fucking clue and thinking about it too hard just made your head hurt more than it already usually did. 

You thought maybe you'd get some answers if you did _something, anything_ at all to get things moving. To start a chain of events you knew you might not be able to stop. It was a risk you were willing to take more and more with every passing hour.

You'd started up your efforts of moving towards the door once again. Once, you found a really good opportunity when the masked man had been gone for about an hour or two. You'd felt a sort of thrill when you managed to get your hands around the doorknob and turn it--somewhat awkwardly. But still, the door creaked open and you had stepped out of it. 

You saw a set of carpeted stairs headed down and decided to take them. When you got to the bottom, you saw the masked man. He was simply standing, staring at a door you could only presume to be the front door. Before you could even think about how you were going to get past him, he turned around suddenly. 

You were surprised when he didn't approach you with as much aggression as the first few times he'd caught you trying to get out. He took you almost gently by your waist and your wrists and lead you back up the stairs. You didn't really fight back. The narrow walls around the stairs forced his body to yours, suffocatingly so. Strangely enough, you weren't completely averted to his touch. If anything, you welcomed the pressure on your body--the human contact--after so long. 

The masked man pushed the door open wider for you and stood there, waiting for you to go back in. You got a good look of the room from the outside for your first time and swallowed, hard. You knew he saw the way you seemed to hesitate, the way you took a half-step back, like you might try to go back down the staircase and actually make a break for it. His gloved hand touched the small of your back, bringing you towards the door again.

He wasn't quite forcing you in, you came to realize. 

It was even more shocking to you when his touch seemed to be encouraging enough to have you walk back through the door. You'd turned to face him once you were in and he stared at you for a few moments before promptly shutting the door. You didn't even hear the click of a lock. It didn't matter because you knew you weren't going to be trying for the door again.

With your giving up, you thought you would have let go more. You thought you would have instantly relaxed and felt at peace and accepted what was happening to you. But that wasn't what happened. You were getting more and more antsy. You constantly found yourself pacing back and forth by the mattress side without even remembering when you got up. There was a sort of strained irritation that made you tense and twitchy, a strange caged animal in you. You might have put a fist through drywall if they weren't both tied together and you weren't so...damn...tired. All the time. 

The worst of it were probably the increasing amount of headaches you were starting to get that wouldn't go away. You assumed it was from the stress of being in this situation, of being so angry and tense constantly. 

It certainly wasn't from any sort of starvation of thirst, luckily. The masked man fed you somewhat regularly. When you wouldn't or didn't want to drink water, sometimes he'd force you to, at the mattress side, his hand warm on the back of your neck, the rim of the water bottle pressed to your slightly open lips. You figured he heard you cry in the night when your headaches were too much to handle and was trying to ease some of it. 

You had a feeling he knew something you didn't about these frequent headaches. 

You still didn't know what his endgame was. 

But that didn't stop you from finally reaching the breaking point of desperation and loneliness. Sometimes you talked to him when he lurked in the room at night, guarding the door vigilantly, like a dog. As usual, he didn't respond. You didn't know if he was listening. It felt like he was. Even if he wasn't looking at you, you thought that maybe he was. You thought that sort of thing would have embarrassed you, and it did at first, but soon it became somewhat cathartic to you. You talked for hours sometimes. About yourself, about him, it didn't matter. You talked to fill the silence, to keep your ears from constantly ringing. To distract yourself from the new and disturbing thoughts you seemed to have.

Nothing ever seemed to happen but the neutrality of it all, the constant of it all, didn't bring you comfort.

It made everything worse. 

_Why won't he do something to me..?_


	4. cold bathwater

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nsfw

It took another few days of simply laying there, doing nothing, before you tried to well...make things happen again? For a lack of better words. You'd sat up slowly, your eyes getting used to the darkness again. You spotted the masked man at the side of the mattress--a recently new behavior of his that you attributed to the unspoken understanding between the two of you. 

He was getting bolder. More willing to touch you and be near you. Sometimes he even dozed off on the mattress while you did. Sometimes you'd woken up to him sleeping at your side. You knew better than to try and move or take off his mask or anything like that. It was better to remain absolutely still and try to go back to sleep. The longer you slept, the less you had to be aware of your continuing migraines anyways...

His new boldness to whatever sort of relationship you had rubbed off a bit on you after awhile. You didn't know if you should have been calling whatever was between you two a relationship but you couldn't help yourself. He was feeding you, giving you water, at least making sure you were somewhat comfortable, and he wasn't trying to actively hurt you. He'd gotten close, at times, however, when you pushed him too much or got too close to the door when he wasn't paying attention. You still remembered the tightness of his fingers around your wrists and throat the one time you'd tried to get up while he was sleeping. God knows how he bolted awake so fast...

"Does the water run here?" you found yourself finally asking him once, casting your gaze off to the side. He'd been toying around with his pocket knife at your side, his back to the dry wall. His dark eyes flicked over to yours, his gloved fingertip atop the point of the blade. 

You knew he was listening--you'd been getting a little better at reading him. It wasn't a complete surprise to you when he stood up off the mattress and straight up left the room.

It wasn't like you hurt his feelings or insulted him or anything. He just did that sometimes. At times you found it kinda funny, just because of how bleak everything else seemed to be. But right now, you were tired and felt grimy and dirty and you weren't really in the mood. A heavy sigh left your lips as you let your head fall back against the drywall with a heavy 'thunk'. 

The masked man came back a bit later, letting the swinging door hit the wall on purpose to get your attention. You'd lifted your head a bit groggily, your eyes half shut and squinting in the darkness. He stood there, motionless in the door way, which you took as a queue to follow him. 

He lead you across the hall and to the bathroom--as usual, super dim. You took extra caution not to dare look into the mirror. You didn't even want to know what you looked like at the moment. The specks of blood in the sink were somewhat new, you noted. You found yourself distracted when you saw the bathtub full of water. You couldn't help but smile, just a little, something you hadn't done in ages.

"Damn, did you do all this?" you asked, turning your head to look at the masked man.

No response but you didn't need one. 

"Well, anyways, thanks. I guess." Without even realizing your mistake, you started to lift your shirt with a bit of difficulty. You froze with the shirt to your chest, your abdomen and back exposed. You turned your head again. 

The masked man was still standing behind you. A blush erupted across your face. He probably couldn't see it in the dark, thank God.

"Um, get out?" you tried, already having somewhat of an idea to how this awkward situation was going to play out. He crossed his arms and leaned back against the counter, his back to the dingy mirror. He cocked his head to the side a little, almost in a...playful (?) kind of way. 

You'd stood there, your fingers still buried in the bunched fabric of your shirt, staring him down. Eventually you realized that no amount of staring would get him to actually listen to you. You rolled your eyes and sighed, muttering a quiet "fine" under your breath. 

You realized your second mistake in trying to get off your shirt first. Your wrists were bound, meaning you probably weren't going to get it off. But you'd figure that shit out later. You just wanted to get into that water so fucking bad at this point. Just for the sake of feeling a little bit better. 

Slowly, and somewhat awkwardly, you continued to undress, starting at the waist of your sweatpants instead. You'd tried to hide as much of your body as you could, knowing that even though it was dark, he could still make out some parts of you you'd rather he not see. You were still having trouble due to your zip tied wrists, and ended up with your side against the wall to keep your balance. You'd given the masked man an exasperated stare as you kicked your shoes off, followed by a slow shake of your head. You managed to get your pants off and step out of them fine, but then that brought you back to the problem that was your shirt (and let's be realistic, the bra underneath). 

You'd sat there for a long moment, dead silent and thinking. Maybe you should just get in the bath with the shirt on? Could you do that?

You felt a hand--the masked man's hand--on your side and suddenly flinched in surprise. He pulled you away from the wall and flicked out his switchblade. His grip tightened on you when your muscles tensed, obviously sensing what you might try next--that being running the fuck away. Surely he couldn't blame you for being a bit nervous. After all, you were vulnerable as all hell and he had a goddamn _knife_ to your skin. 

_Fuck, fuck. He's finally gonna kill me,_ you found yourself thinking, obviously a bit irrationally. He had no reason to kill you now. Then again, he was also an unpredictable masked man who hadn't spoken a single word to you and also had no reasons or rationality to his own actions. Seemed like a fifty fifty shot of either living or dying at the moment. And that was being rather generous on your part.

You held your breath until you heard the sound of tearing fabric. He was cutting the shirt clean off your body, starting at the neckline and working across the shoulders. Your hands clenched into fists as he peeled the fabric from your skin, slowly. A gentle shiver crossed your body. The blush on your face didn't fade when you realized that he had paused a moment to observe. Both of his hands found a place on your sides, at your waist, stroking up slowly. His dark eyes were visible past the holes in his mask, even in the dimness--that's how close he was. Your shoulders tightened as his gloved hand brushed across them and he cut the straps with ease. 

Your bound hands shot up to the middle of the bra, keeping it sloppily pinned to your chest. You tried to back out of his grip but he didn't let go of your shoulder. His hand, still holding the knife flat, met the small of your back and drew you back in. The metal of the blade on your back sent chills down your spine and you didn't dare move. He pried your hands away from your chest, letting the bra drop and join your shirt upon the tile floor. 

A bit of irritation flashed through you, somewhat petty and melodramatic in nature. You'd definitely liked that bra and it was kinda annoying that you weren't going to get to wear it after this. Still, you found yourself relieved that the blade that cut so easily through the laced straps hadn't found its way into your guts. Unfortunately, it didn't completely fall away from your skin. The masked man traced it up, over your shoulder, purposely sending more shivers through your body. 

Taken aback, you froze a moment before trying your luck at moving away from him again. This time, to your relief, he allowed it. You were even more relieved when you saw him finally put that fucking switchblade away in the waist of his jeans. 

Slowly, you stepped into the water and lowered yourself down. Your bound hands weren't much use in helping you balance. The water was cold--almost surprisingly so. But you weren't one to complain. You were just happy the masked man had even drawn a bath for you in the first place. You were very grateful for that and you didn't intend on being picky and ruining it. If anything, the cold water was refreshing. 

He'd come to sit at the side of the porcelain, on his knees, one of his hands gripping the side of the tub. You were too caught up to notice him right then as a heavy sigh left your lips and you leaned back more into the water. You'd only realized he had moved to your side when you suddenly felt his hands on your shoulders. You started under his unexpected touch, the water amplifying the movement as your breath quickened. His hands stayed where they were and eventually, you relaxed again, almost finding the pressure...soothing? Should it have felt that way?

The masked man's hands began to move upwards slowly, shifting up your neck. His fingers caught in your hair, bunching it up as he went higher. His palms were warm over your ears as he purposely grabbed and shoved your hair up away from the water. You sharply inhaled, your lips parting slightly as he suddenly pushed his face against the crook of your neck, the white plastic of the mask cool. The small, tight lips pressed up to your skin. You turned your head just slightly. You didn't know what had gotten into you in that moment, but your bound hands had gone up to his chin, to the bottom of the mask, in an odd attempt to lift it, just a little. It was a mistake you quickly realized. You'd relaxed too quickly--you'd forgotten the conditions of your situation, of the masked man. Maybe it was his unusual gentle touch that had blurred you reality and allowed it to slip your mind. 

The masked man's hands left your head as he grabbed your bound wrists, jerking his head away suddenly from your fingertips. He held you very tightly, to the point were you were consciously biting your lip to keep the whine of pain back in your throat. He stared at you, his dark eyes suddenly cold and unreadable all over again. You were nervous, your heart pounding in your chest as you averted your eyes, genuinely unsure of your fate in that moment. 

Then, as quickly as he had grabbed you, the masked man let go. He stood back up, noiselessly, before turning away and leaving the bathroom. He didn't bother to close the door when he left. Honestly that was least of your discomforts and worries at the moment. You laid back for a few more seconds in the bathwater, letting it submerge you entirely. 

You hadn't opened your eyes underwater. You'd just laid there in spacey blackness, feeling the cold all around you. Your fingers curled. You hated that you had to give a second thought to surfacing. You still sat in that bathtub, staring at the blank wall before you, motionless. 

Without much of another thought, only numbness, you stood up and dried off to the best of your ability with a towel hung in the corner. You managed to get your pants back on, just wanting to feel somewhat clothed again--covered in anyway you could. You knew that you had no top anymore, which was kind of irritating. You hoped that maybe the masked man would have some old t-shirt or something laying around in the house or a blanket. The strange haze that had clouded you felt lighter now and the idea of walking around half nude for him to see didn't seem that appealing anymore.

You walked out of the bathroom, your arms together and up to your chest, covering whatever you could. You pushed your way past the door and into the room that you were beginning to identify as your own. Without even thinking, you returned back there, willing and ready to lay back on that mattress, just the way he liked you to. At the moment, you hadn't realized how...bad it was that escaping wasn't even on your mind. But you felt like there was no other place to go. It was ridiculous, but this place felt...safer. 

The idea that he was guarding you, protecting you from something, was still strong in your subconscious. 

The masked man was there, waiting for you on the mattress, his elbow upon his knees, his wrists limp between his legs. His eyes had already been on the door before you even entered--which lead you to believe he'd been waiting expectantly for you to return from the bathroom. It became increasingly obvious to you that he knew you weren't going to try and escape him anymore--that you knew no other way but the way he'd been forcing you to live. And you didn't care. Your breath caught in your throat as he suddenly stood up. 

Without warning, without reason, he grabbed you, tight by your bound wrists. His other hand went to your side, where he effectively shoved you back down onto the bed. 

The breath was knocked from your lungs as your body hit the mattress. He was on top of you in seconds, either one of his legs straddled overtop your hips. One of his gloved hands tangled in your hair, finding a tight grip and yanking your head up at an odd angle to expose your throat. Your heart pounded in your chest—you didn’t dare fight back. Even when you felt the blade against your throat. He held it there, like he was hesitating. You were crying silently, unable to hear anything above the pounding of blood in your ears.  
  
The knife left your skin. A part of you knew it’d be back soon.  
  
The masked man suddenly flipped you over with a scary amount of ease. You’d only realized how much weight you’d lost when you saw his hands on your ribs, more visible than they’d ever been in your entire life. It sickened you.  
  
But then you felt bad. It wasn’t the masked man’s fault he couldn’t consistently feed you. It wasn’t his fault.  
  
He grabbed your bound wrists and flipped them up above your head with a skilled hand. You couldn’t help but shiver as he traced that knife up your ribs, over your chest in lazy, slow lines, and finally up your cheek. You flinched as the point of the blade ghosted over your brow. You looked up at the masked man, confused and desperate, trembling more violently beneath him. You didn’t move to fight back. You never wanted to.  
  
To your surprise, he seemed to reach up with the knife. Your hands jerked a little bit as he cut through the zip tie in one, quick movement. A relieved sigh involuntarily left your lips as your hands came apart. For a moment, you kept them up, aware of the knife still clenched tight in the masked man’s hand. He watched you slowly let your hands fall back down. You wanted to cry again, it felt so good.  
  
He set you free.  
  
You were free.  
  
You felt flattered that he’d obviously began to trust you this much. It was all too easy to feel obligated to stay and show him that you were good—that you could still be good for him. You wanted him to be impressed with you. You wanted him.  
  
Slowly, his hands readjusted and found their place on your sides, at your waist. He lifted your upper body. Your wrists still stinging, you grabbed his solid upper arms for stability. And for the longest of seconds you stared up at him, lips slightly agape with breathlessness still founded on fear. Fuck, you were scared. But even from the fear was born the strangest thrill—the touch of his gloved hands on your bare skin. You could almost feel the heat of his fingers, he was gripping so tightly.  
  
His head lowered slightly, his eyes dark and shadowed behind the holes in his mask. But all the same, holding yours hypnotically. A sort of agreement passed silently. Of what he was going to do. Of what you wanted him to do.  
  
God, you were going to hell. But if you were lucky maybe he’d be there to burn with you, white mask and all.  
  
The cool forehead of the mask pressed against your own, the delicate arched nose brushing against yours. You could hear his breath, muffled behind the white plastic. It made him feel more human to you. Not the mysterious shade he made himself. It helped you rationalize. No matter how wrong you were.  
  
One of your hands left his arm and brushed up his shoulder, to the zipped up collar of his jacket. The zipper tag was snug between your thumb and bent forefinger. He seemed to stiffen. You didn’t move the zipper. You’d just wanted to feel the grizzled underside of his jaw against your knuckles, the only exposed part of his body. Just for a moment.

It wasn't long before he was moving again, shifting atop you. His hand went lower, smoothing past your waist and over your hip and under the waistband of your pants. He was pushing it down and...and you helped him, shifting your body so he could pull them down quicker. 

Once the shock and nervousness of his advances, of the way he touched you after all he'd done, had passed, you found yourself enjoying him, enjoying all this. He'd long began to move on past just touching you slowly, working you up on purpose, and one of his own hands had gone to the waist of his jeans. 

You found it...odd the way he kept you pinned beneath him. You'd try to get up a little, to push harder on him, against him, out of your own need and desire, but he'd force you back down, to the point where you thought he would bruise your body. He wouldn't let you on top of him. It was a power thing, you understood. Strangely enough, it seemed to make the fire in you burn even hotter and the blush on your face seemed to intensify.

It didn't take long before his motions became more ragged, more intense. Like he was finally started to let some of that control slip. Like he was more of an animal than usual. Gone was the silence, now replaced with the blend of his grunts and growls and your soft moans of pleasure, your hands tight on his straining arms. Your head was between either one of his hands--he had you trapped and you had no intention of escaping.

His violent streak seemed to come back as he suddenly grabbed you, slamming you up against the wall behind you. Your lips had parted in half of a pained cry as your head smacked against the drywall. It twisted into another sound of bliss.

You thought the drywall was going to give out from under you the way he fucked you so roughly against it. You found your teeth suddenly sinking into his shoulder as your nails dug into his neck. You pushed your face into his body, holding back tears of mixed pain and pleasure, small muffled and shaking sighs leaving your lips each time his hips pushed against your own.

Obviously, you finished before him, but he didn't seem to care. He still kept you pinned, until he was quite satisfied. You didn't know how he managed to catch his breath in mere moments and slide his jeans back up his hips, without so much as skipping a beat. You still laid there beneath him, a panting, heated mess. 

All the sudden the gravity of your actions seemed to set in and embarrassment now flushed at your face as your raised your arms, crossing them over your chest and ducking your head behind a hand. You averted your gaze to the far corner of the room, hunching up smaller beneath him, your body still quaking slightly. 

_What the fuck is wrong with me..._

You flinched when the masked man suddenly touched your hand. Slowly he moved it from your face and you looked back up at him again, turning your head back to face him. His thumb brushed over your cheek before he uncrossed your arms. His gloved hands rubbed along the sides of your chest softly, holding for just a few moments before he suddenly got up off of you. 

Slowly, you sat up on the mattress, watching him leave the room. He left the door open, which indicated to you that he'd probably be back in a few seconds. You wondered what he'd gone to find. You soon had your answer when he returned with a bunched up grey t-shirt in his hand. He tossed it to you. You snatched it out of the air, one of your arms once again back up to cover your chest. You didn't even think twice before slipping it on. 

There were a few holes here and there, probably from moths or something. It also was kinda musty, but other than that, the shirt was fine and you were overall grateful once again for the masked man's newfound kindness...maybe even fondness (?) towards you. 

When you looked back up from the shirt he was gone again.

The door was closed. 

And once again the question crossed your mind.

... _What is he looking for? What the fuck is out there?_


	5. okay

It'd been awhile now and you found yourself coming to terms with how...accepting you were becoming of your rather bleak and disturbing situation. It had felt so wrong to realize that ideas of escaping or living a life outside of this had completely abandoned you. It had felt so wrong to almost...want to stay. With him. With the masked man. You rationalized it at first, reminding yourself of the metal of the switchblade on your skin numerous times.

_If I try to leave he will kill me. He will hurt me. So I can't leave._

Now you no longer felt shame when thinking of his strangely tender, gentle touch on your body. You'd done what you had to do to survive. This was a survival thing. Right? So what if you had fucked him--if you had _let_ him fuck you--it was for your life, wasn't it? Yes. Yes, it was. 

But there was something more to it. Something past just rambling rationalization and excuses. Another reason you'd done and were continuing to do the things you had with him. It was stupid. It was insane. But you felt...like you had this connection with him. Like you knew him. Like you were supposed to be near him. You thought he might have felt this strange, carnal bond as well, the way he sat by your side late into (what you assumed was) night, his hand slow over your hair, your head in his lap. 

You still didn't know why or what the fuck was going on. But it was beginning to bother you less and less the more time went on. You had this dreadful feeling about it anyways. Like it was better if you never found out. It was easier to find your bliss in ignorance--the same ignorance the masked man allowed to perpetuate. 

Still you wondered. You wondered if there were police out there, looking for you. Or friends. Or family. The ones you'd pushed the farthest away when Tim had gone missing in a manic fit of anger and sadness. Someone. Anyone. You felt bad thinking about needing anyone else other than the masked man who was keeping you safe and fed and sheltered. But you couldn't help it, even if you knew the answer. Chances were low. You doubted the local police or your family and few friends thought you were even alive. You were like Tim now. Vanished. Gone. A missing person. 

This was the first time you'd thought of Tim in what felt like forever. It made your mind feel more...clear, thinking about him. Like you were more real. 

And you wondered for the briefest of moments if this masked man had anything to do with Tim's disappearance as well. After all, he'd made you disappear. Maybe he did the same to Tim. 

But you knew that was ridiculous. A farfetched idea fueled by a mix of your own boredom and paranoia. A result of too much overthinking as usual.

So you decided to let it go.

You didn't have much longer to toy with that idea anyways. Your mind was elsewhere the minute the masked man suddenly burst into the room, his hand sliding down the door as he stumbled in. He was trying to support himself as he hacked and coughed deeply and raggedly behind his mask. You'd never heard this much noise ever come from him. You shot up off the mattress and to your feet upon seeing dark droplets drip out from the bottom of his mask. He was coughing up blood behind it. 

Before you could reach him, he attempted to take another shaking step forwards, his hand reached out to you. He collapsed almost the same moment a piercing headache fell over you. A sense of horror shot through you. You had to stop yourself before you fell over as well, shoving a hand to your forehead to put pressure on your skull, gritting your teeth as your eyes watered. 

It didn't matter right now. You could push through it. You always pushed through them. 

You rushed over to the masked man without much of another thought, sinking to your knees. Your hands found his upper body, pulling him closer to you across the floor. He was starting to seize. You'd realized then that you had actually seen the beginning of one of his seizures a couple times before, but at that time you'd only assumed they were violent tics and twitches. He always left the room when they started to come on so you had no idea what to expect now.

You'd never had to experience him having a full on seizure before. All the sudden you felt responsible for his life, something you didn't know how to save. 

"Fuck, fuck," were the only words that escaped you. "I don't know what to do. I don't know-"

He had something clenched in his gloved hand but you didn't try to pry his fingers open (you doubted they'd give anyways) and you were honestly too afraid to try. You just bit back tears, realizing your only option was to wait it out. Fortunately, it seemed to be a very brief seizure and it ended up stopping sooner than you expected. 

The masked man simply laid there, the twitches becoming smaller and less frequent, his head in your lap. Shaking, slowly, your hand went to his hair and stroked over it. He moved his hand, like he was going to stop you, and you froze momentarily. He held his hand up for a moment before it slowly found its place at your knee, gripping very gently. Hesitantly, you continued stroking his hair, and a soft sigh seemed to come from him. 

When your hand accidentally touched his mask, he suddenly grabbed your wrist very tightly--enough to bruise it. It hurt even more, considering they were still raw. The zip ties around them had only been cut off recently. You sucked in a sharp breath and winced but he ignored you. The masked man's muscles loosened just slightly and he slowly lowered your hand back down to his masked cheek, holding it there closely. Ruggedly, he breathed in and out and you shifted slightly to lean over and check on him. You caught a glimpse of his dark eyes, half closed behind the lined eyeholes of the moon white mask. He kept your hand to his cheek.

The two of you sat there on the floor for what felt like hours. It was all quiet again, except for the few, fleeting soft coughs that shook the masked man on your lap. Eventually you dozed off on the carpet, your hand fell away from his hair and your other followed suit, drifting away from his mask. 

The masked man waited a few moments before getting up off you. It took him a few seconds to become steady on his feet again. He managed to get to the bathroom, not bothering to close the door behind him. He was sure you'd be out for a good while. 

With his palms on the edge of the sink, he stared into the mirror. He looked away, one of his hands going to lift the mask. As usual, it felt almost painful, terrifying to have the mask off. He was vulnerable. He made quick work of running it under the cold, finicky water from the faucet. The dried blood came off easy with the rub of a finger. 

The shield, his mask, was back on his face in seconds. 

In his hand was still the pill bottle he'd clenched so tightly before. He popped the lid and peered inside. There was only one or two left--maybe some white powder at the bottom. It was stupid and desperate, but he absentmindedly stuck his finger in, moving those pills around, hoping by some chance maybe more might appear. Nothing. The masked man pulled his finger out. He rubbed the white dust off his glove before popping the lid back on. 

Not enough.

And hardly worth the shit he had to put up with to get them. 

Quickly, he looked up when he heard your voice. 

"Hey...um. Masked guy?" It was barely above a whisper. You didn't want to disturb the quiet anymore than you had to. You were standing just outside the doorway of the room. "Are...are you better? Like okay?" 

He simply stared at you in the darkness. You crossed your arms, not knowing what else to do with them. He approached the doorway and you took a few steps back to give him more room to enter. 

He touched you. His hands started at your arms and smoothed up your shoulders. He cupped your neck with one hand and your cheek with the other. His thumb drifted slowly over your skin as he stared down at you. 

You didn't flinch. 

"I-I think I have a bit of a headache. Uhm. Any aspirin here? Or ibuprofen maybe? Or something? I don't know..." 

At your words his eyes narrowed in the shadow and his fingers almost clenched at your cheek. He glanced back and forth around the room very quickly, like he was checking for something. His gaze lingered on the corners of the room for a beat too long. His hands fell away from your face and neck as he took you by the waist and lead you back into the room. 

The masked man put a bottle (the item that you assumed had been clenched in his hand when he'd had his fit) on the bedside, still glancing to and fro somewhat too frantically for comfort. The small rotations of your head indicated that your gaze was following his. He could sense your growing unease. In response, he set you down on the mattress and crouched down. Softly, he touched your cheek again. Your hand raised over his gloved one. You barely even had a moment to lean into his touch before he slipped his hand out from under yours somewhat quickly and stood up straight.

He left the room, shutting the door tightly behind him. 

"Gee, thanks..." you muttered to yourself, your fingers still tracing down the spot on your cheek he'd held.

You glanced to the side, over to the bottle he'd left on the side. You wondered if he had intended for you to take them. 

No.

You were getting better at reading him--if he wanted you to take them he would have given them to you himself. 

It was safer to wait anyways. For him.

You let out a soft sigh and laid back on the mattress, your eyes on the ceiling. You tried to focus on something other than the worsening pounding in your head. It would go away on its own you were sure. You shut your eyes. 

You didn't mind. You didn't care.

It was all okay. 

As long as the masked man came back, that was all that mattered to you. 

He was all that mattered to you. 


End file.
